


until I had you on the open road

by addtastic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A good old American Road Trip, Cannon until Season 4, Lost but then found, M/M, Not really AU but not Cannon either, Roadtrip, Running away from the feels, implied minor character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:00:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addtastic/pseuds/addtastic
Summary: Sheriff was dead, erased in a slash of claws and a pool of blood. Beacon Hills was suddenly too small with not enough air. So, Stiles leaves to lose himself but finds something instead.





	1. standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona

The sun hadn’t set completely so everything that was not touched by its fading glow was stretched and distorted. Reds and purples stained the sky reminding Stiles of a bruise that had been sliced open, dripping blood into the a bright, burning void. It had been an eternity since he had last seen the beauty in anything. This sunset was no different. The world was lost in shadow and had been for a long time. Yet, this shadow was not affected by the setting of the sun. 

It had been six days since he had eaten, thirteen if a pack of expired pretzels didn't constitute as a meal. Food didn’t have a taste anymore and the smell of it made him want to puke stomach acid all over everything. So instead of food he drank water and sometimes managed to keep it down long enough as to not feel his muscles start to cramp. 

Pulling off to the side of the road to a patch of desert that was just as good as any, Stiles turned off the jeep and just stared out of the windshield. There wasn’t anything around for miles. Nothing but sand and dust and asphalt steadily disappearing into the darkness. Last time he looked at a map he was somewhere in Nevada but that was two days ago. 

It was times like these that Stiles wishes he hadn't throw his phone into the Preserve on his way out of town. It would be so simple to find out his exact location. But fuck it. It didn’t matter. Stiles didn’t have a plan as to where he was going so grabbing a few hours of sleep in an anonymous location wouldn’t be the end of the world. 

A month with no phone, no plan, no dad. Had it been a month? Time was different now. Days weren't measured in hours and minutes. Now a day was measured in the amount of miles it took for the sun to move from his windshield to his rearview. 

He drove until he was tired, slept until he wasn't, and started all over again the next day. 

When he slept Stiles dreamed of thick trees and hazel eyes. He dreamed of blood and black ash. Teeth, claws, hands, eyes. It’s always eyes. Green to blue to gray to magic. 

And some nights he doesn’t dream at all. 

In his waking hours he refused to dwell on the images his subconscious provide him, most of it was forgotten anyway as the mile markers flew by. Stiles just drove, sipped his water, and listened to static on the radio when the mountains blocked the signal. 

It's the same routine day in and day out until the jeep changed it's mind.

There was a rattle that started off gentle and turned into a smoking, squealing pile of shit. The Jeep was done. Stiles had known it was only a matter of time before she would bite it. The oedometer had been broken when she was still his mom’s but he know that the milage was well over the normal life expectancy of a vehicle made in the 80s. Still, as he pounded his fists until they were bloody on the steering wheel it felt like the last part of his old life had given up on him too. 

A few miles back he had seen signs for a town that couldn’t be too far now. He could walk it. It wasn’t even midday yet, so hopefully he wouldn’t fall over from heatstroke. But with his luck? He’d walk a mile and get struck by lighting. Regardless, sitting in a dead pile of scrap metal wasn’t going to help him put even more miles between him and Beacon Hills. Stiles knew he had to do something. 

“Had to be the fucking desert.” He muttered through gritted teeth, wiping the blood from his knuckles onto a napkin he found on the passenger seat. The skin was split in three different places but it wasn't too bad. The bruises were going to be the problem but Stiles would deal with that when the time comes. For now he gave up on stopping the bleeding and started to shove whatever he could into the duffle he keeps most of his belongings in. 

There was a patch of sweat blossoming between his shoulder blades as he got out of the cab. It didn't take long to route around in the back until he found his knapsack filled with dirty clothes. There might be a laundromat in town and Stiles is running out of things that don’t smell like a week and a half without a shower. A green shirt was tucked up under the backseat and Stiles frowned at it. It was dirty, he knew for sure if he didn't grab it it was going to stink up the Jeep while it baked in the sun. 

Reaching in, he grabbed the fabric which is dried stiff with something he doesn’t remember spilling. The shirt came free with a yank and that is when Stiles saw it. 

Deep, purple patches of dried blood coated the shirt. It’s not his blood. Or it is. It’s the same blood running through his veins, but it didn’t come from him. More like he came from it. 

Stiles threw the shirt on the ground, the contents of his stomach rising up his throat and spilling out onto the dust. 

He remembered all of it. Kate’s laugh as she sliced through his father’s chest with her claws. The desperation in his frantic movements when he had shoved his shaking hands onto Sheriff's chest hoping that if he put enough pressure on the gaping slashes the bleeding would stop. But he was too late. Hot blood pooled around Stiles and his hands came out stained red with the blood that had soaked into the fabric of the his father's jacket. 

He could still feel how tacky the blood had become as it dried between his fingers. No amount of detergent would wash that memory away. The shirt was a lost cause.

Stiles buried it next to a sign that read WINSLOW 7.

It didn’t feel right to just throw it away. 

He sat behind the open hatch of his jeep for a long time, back pressed against the sun-warmed metal. So far the plan had been drive until he didn’t feel anything anymore but it seemed that plan was changing. Seeing as his method of driving was currently out of commission, possibly for forever, maybe, he thought, he was just going to have to walk until he died. 

The little nagging voice told him that he could go home. Back to his bed and his room and school and... a life that didn’t exist for him anymore. That shred of nostalgia that made his chest ache for his posters and his pile of laundry outside of the closet did so without acknowledging the fact that if he did go home, it would be to an empty house. 

An orphan’s house. 

In Beacon Hills Stiles was an orphan. But here? Here he could be anything he wanted to be. Here he wouldn’t be subjected to sympathetic smiles and solemn nods. On the road, place to place, Stiles moved under the radar of everyone and everything. He was invisible. Just like before all this werewolf shit fell into his lap. Being invisible was what Stiles was good at. 

Of course he missed his dad, yet, instead of feeling the sadness over his death the only thing Stiles felt was anger and anxiety. Kate was out there somewhere. Scott had let her get away. She was living and his father was not. Scott let her go. The Universe was a cruel place. Scott never could be cruel. 

Maybe he would look for her. He could kill her if he found her. Or she could kill him. At this point, it didn’t really matter. 

One thing at a time. 

Before he killed anyone, himself included, Stiles needed to get up. He needed to walk the seven miles to Winslow and find a tow truck, a laundromat, and a place to shower. 

The wad of cash in his back pocket would keep him comfortable, but it was probably not even close enough to save the Jeep. Filling the tank was expensive and gas station stops added up. Maybe walking was his best option after all. 

Groaning, Stiles pushed himself up off the ground. With a bottle of water in hand, Stiles left the arm of a hoodie sticking out the rolled up window to let people know he wasn’t abandoning the Jeep. Not yet at least. 

The heat was something he had never experienced before. It was dry, made him drip sweat and stink up his clothes. The sun was beating heavily on the asphalt causing it to wave before his eyes. The black BHPD duffle thrown over his shoulder and musty smelling knapsack radiated heat, refracted it into his skin.

He began walking, one foot in front of the other, kicking rocks until the jeep was just a blip in the background. 

An hour had passed but it felt longer. There were a few sips of water sloshing around in the bottle that hung from Stiles’ loose grip. It would take another hour at least to get to town but he didn’t know if he had it in him. The not eating was catching up, the muscles in his legs burned. It was pathetic, really. He ran cross country for Christ’s sake. His duffle bag grew heavier each step even though nothing new was being added to it. “Great job, Stilinski. Really thought this one though." 

Mother Nature was a heartless bitch that didn’t give one flying fuck about Stiles’ mental breakdown. 

The air was still. There was no breeze nor a single cloud in the sky. The desert scrub taunted him. Instinctively Stiles raised the back of his hand to his forehead to wipe away the sweat that threatened to drip into his eyes. Behind his sunglasses his gaze narrowed at the road ahead. An instant passed before he was regretting every decision he had ever made. 

About 100 feet off of the road was a collection of rather impressive boulders producing shade that looked all kinds of inviting. Napping in a hiding place away from the sun might do him some good. Was stopping admitting defeat? Probably. Did Stiles care? Not in the slightest. 

The temperature difference was almost instantaneous as he sunk heavily down onto his ass, draining the last of his water.. He really, really missed his phone. Fuck, this was stupid. He was so stupid. Maybe he could get a burner if he made it to town. One of those pay as you go deals that drug dealers use. It would be really handy to have in case of life or death situations like one he always found himself in. 

Not like he had anyone to call.

Idly he pulled the flattened pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and removed one of three that were left. Stiles couldn’t remember exactly what seedy gas station he had bought the first pack but when he thought back on it it was somewhere between Bakersfield and Death Valley. 

At first he hadn't liked it, but it gave Stiles something to do on those long stretches of highway. The lighter sparked in his hand and he took a long drag until his lungs couldn’t hold anymore. Exhaling reminded his of winter, seeing his breath blooming in a cloud before his eyes. Something else to add to the list of things to miss. The cigarette made his tongue feel heavy, burned the back of his throat but he wasn’t sure if that was because of the heat or dehydration. 

When he closed his eyes all Stiles saw was black and it relaxed him. Tipping his head back against the rock he took another drag and held it this time. Even though he shouldn’t he thought about home, thought sinking himself down into that aluminum tub at Deaton’s, holding his breath until everything went black. He died for his dad once, he recalls, and in an ironic twist of fate his dad ended up dying because of him anyway. 

Well fuck his mind was depressing he mused before finally exhaling.

It wasn’t another twenty minutes before he was down to one cigarette and zero options other than to get up and keep going. It couldn’t be another 3 miles but it was daunting and he was comfortable, or as comfortable as he could be in his current situation. Closing his eyes, Stiles decided to nap instead in hopes that he would be at least partially invigorated and not at all stiff when he finally decided to move again. 

Time slowed and the world went quiet. Stiles didn’t dream, just floated somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, “Hey kid! That your Jeep up the road a ways?” The thick voice startled him. Stiles jumped to his feet, half dazed. 

“Yeah, she died on me.” he told the State Trooper out by the road. The guy was heavyset with a army cut. Nothing like Sheriff, Stiles was thankful for that. “I was trying to walk into town but…” He didn’t need to finish, the Trooper understood. 

“Gotta report it. Thought it was abandoned. Don’t you got a phone, kid?” He asked in an exasperatedly harsh fashion. 

Stiles shook his head, “No. No phone.” 

The Trooper looked skeptical but nodded anyway, “Hop in the back, I’ll take you into town and you call you a tow from the diner. It’s lunchtime anyway.”

Stiles hesitated for a half a heartbeat. A cruiser was a little too close to home but what other option was there? With dragging feet his collected his things and trudged to the car. The handle was hot when he grabbed if but it grounded him. “Thanks, sir.” He said once he closed himself in and they began to move.

\+ 

He had to have drank a pot of coffee all by himself. Stiles could feel the caffeine radiating through him. It was difficult to sit still in the worn booth and not pick at the cigarette burn next to his thigh. But Stiles did. He sat with his face pressed against the cold glass, thankful that this place had air conditioning. Sunburn had turned the pale skin of his nose and cheeks an uncomfortable shade of red. The window brought him some relief. 

The menu sat open in front of Stiles, it had been sitting there ignored for nearly an hour. He wasn't hungry but he should eat. Heavily he rolled his face away from the life giving chill of the glass and stared holes into the dirty menu. 

Pancakes? No. He has seen a plate piled sky high leave the kitchen and it reminded him of home. Burgers. No, reminded him of Sheriff. Curley fries? Definitely not. Stiles’ stomach lurched painfully as he caught the smell of bacon when a waitress walked by with a tray. 

“Refill?” The elderly woman asked brandishing a fresh pot of coffee like a peace offering. Stiles nodded and tried to smile but it felt unnatural on his lips. “Anything on the menu catch your attention?” 

Stiles caught his reflection in the dark surface of his cup and quickly looked away. He looked gaunt and miserable. “I'll just stick with coffee for now.” Closing the menu he drained half the cup in one go. He went back to pressing his face once again into the glass, watching the world spin. The waitress walked away leaving Stiles with a sad look. 

It was the somber kind of hopelessness that sat on his chest, pressing down into his ribs and seeping into his bones. The Jeep had made it to the mechanics and the tow alone put a dent in his cash supply. If today was a testament to anything walking was not going to work in the desert. Hitching was an idea but it still required some walking. If the Jeep is salvageable, he’s going to have to spend the money on it. There was no other way. 

Winslow seemed like a town that had a lot of passers through. There was a chance that he could ask around and see if he could do some odd jobs for quick cash in order to lessen the fallout. Still, the outcome seemed bleak. Stiles’ stomach clenched and he opened his eyes, resigning to look the menu over one more time. 

Through the glass movement caught his eye, something sleek and black slowly drifting down the road. 

No. 

No. That was not possible. 

The tinted windows of the Camaro were rolled up hiding the driver. It could be anyone. A similar car wasn’t certainty. But Stiles’ heart thumped double time, crashing around in his hollow chest. _He _didn’t even drive the Camaro anymore, at least he hadn’t the last time Stiles had seen him. After...after Mexico and Peter and Kate. As much as he wanted to pull his eyes away Stiles couldn’t.__

He watched the car slow almost to a stop outside of the diner before disappearing around the corner. And when his breath had returned he couldn’t help feeling like he had just seen a ghost.


	2. sometimes that hot horizon plays tricks on you

It was by accident that Derek Hale had even choose Winslow. 

After he had woken up cold and naked in a Flagstaff hotel room to an empty bed and a number written in hot pink lipstick on the mirror over the dresser, he knew it was time to move on. Once the one night stands started there was a level of risk added to his life. Risk of semi-permanence or complacency was just as dangerous as any. 

Besides, whenever he tried to stop for more than a few days his skin began to itch. It was like if he stopped to catch his breath the ghosts always caught up. 

It sunk into his bones, the feeling of being trapped, almost like if he tried to take a deep breath his lungs would only fill a quarter of the way before giving up. Yes, he was in a better place than two years ago but that place had been so beyond rock bottom that he surpassed the cold, dark dirt that had collapsed in on him and was swallowed whole by the molten core of the Earth. 

Derek was still trying to claw his way back to the surface. Yet there he was, slowly but surely shifting the debris into smaller, more manageable piles. 

Traveling helped a little, it gave him other things to think about. Decisions weren’t life or death anymore. Now which exit to take became the most important question Derek asked himself. 

The horizon stretched out before him like a promise. More than anything Derek was trying to heal himself from the shit storm that the last 10 years of his life and the road offered some kind of salvation. Derek didn’t feel as caged anymore and that had to count for something. 

Once he showered the previous night off of his skin, Derek folded his the shirts he had left on the desk and neatly packed them into his bag. He didn’t have much after he purged his belongings, left most of it back in the loft before he had taken off with Braden. 

The things that he left seemed tainted now, almost like whatever curse Beacon Hills had placed on him soaked into his clothes and books and furniture. If he was a stronger person, Derek would have burned the building to the ground and never looked back. 

But he wasn’t a stronger person. 

And the smell of smoke still made him want to weep. 

After checkout he decided on East. North meant home. South the ruins of an earthquake ravaged church. West meant looking back which Derek refused to do again. And East? East reminded him of New York, of new beginnings, and fresh starts. 

Derek’s mind drifted to Laura as it often did. He could think about her now without feeling nauseous from guilt. He thought about how she had dragged him to Sedona on their way to New York. Perhaps he would backtrack a ways and see if Barbara still had a crystal shop on Main Street. 

The desert reminded him of her. If he closed his eyes he could see her with all the windows down, dark hair blowing wild in the wind. She was wild and strong and unapologetically free. He missed her when he looked at the clouds and felt her when he chased the fading light of a sunset. Laura always smelled like sun and sand, like she carried the arid wilderness in her blood. 

Maybe that is why he is running, maybe be just trying to find what he lost, find what was taken. 

Derek kept the windows down until the heat became too much for him. Desert heat was something awful that made his insides burn. The Camaro’s AC pumping on high was the only noise in the car. Silence was something fleeting, something to be cherished. 

An hour or so into the drive signs for Winslow started to creep up slowly but Derek ignored them. He hadn't been on the road that long and it didn't make sense to stop so soon. He wasn’t hungry, the jug of water in the passenger seat made sure he wasn’t thirsty. Yet, there was something in his chest that was telling him he needed to make a pit stop. Derek suppressed the feeling and pressed on the gas pedal instead. 

It was easy to get lost in thought on the endless highways. Derek wasn’t immune to daydreaming, his attention to the road less than ideal. So when the tow truck seemed to materialize out of thin air Derek to slammed on his breaks to avoid rear ending the front end of some beat up old Jeep being towed behind.

Some beat up old pale blue Jeep. 

With California plates. 

He laughed then from somewhere in his throat. A sardonic chuckle for the person this Jeep brought to mind. Derek didn’t think about Stiles often, only in passing from time to time if something jogged his memory. But this? This was pretty hard to ignore. 

No way it could be his Jeep, Derek was sure about that. Stiles and his Jeep were some 800 miles away right now. Right? 

Right. 

Still, that feeling was tugging at his insides, telling him to follow. And with a sigh Derek decided to indulge it. The little voice in the back of his head berated him for sentimentality, for poor impulse control. But what could it hurt? It wasn’t like he had somewhere to be. Laura would be proud of him for doing something spontaneous. 

The tow truck drove into Winslow and Derek followed it all the way to the garage. What now? Did he expect Stiles to pop out of the office and stride over to catch up? Derek parked across the street and began what could only be called a stake out. He sat with the windows tightly closed, the sun dimmed though he tinted glass. 

When he tried, Derek could hear the mechanics taking amongst themselves about the state of the jeep. From what he gathered the engine was shot, something about the heat and age. They kept mentioning a single phrase that caught Derek’s attention and held it firm. “The kid.” 

The owner of this Jeep, “the kid”, called from the diner and would stop by tomorrow to get the estimate. Derek refused to even entertain the thought of sitting here all night waiting to see who showed up to claim the Jeep. He wasn’t that invested. After all, this was all nonsense anyway. 

Derek had checked it out, his detour was in vain. Stiles was not here, obviously. 

This place was just like any other on Route 66 and Derek had seen most of them. Some were touristy destinations that Derek wanted to avoid like the plague and others had that Americana feel that Cora at ate up. He didn’t feel practically enthralled with either aesthetic but this town he didn’t mind too much. From what he could see from the car, anyway.But that couldn’t convince him to stay. 

Now that he had gotten that out of his system he almost yearned to get back out on the road. It became addictive, the game of wandering. Derek had been playing for almost a year now and he had never been happier. And despite the finality of his decision and steadfastness of his commitment to move along, he couldn’t help but slow down while passing the diner and just look. 

He looked. He saw. He nearly crashed the car for the second time that day. 

Sat in the diner, face pressed against the window was Stiles Stilinski. Derek started in shock as he noticed the look of familiar panic on Stiles’ face. He knew Stiles couldn’t see him but he felt a pair of eyes boring into him. 

Stiles was alone at the table which meant he was alone in the middle of Arizona. What had happened since Derek left. A year ago Scott would be with him or his dad or someone. Scott’s pack never traveled alone. 

Maybe he wasn’t alone. Perhaps Derek was just jumping to conclusions like he always was. He’d just have to hang around a little longer and wait to see Scott or Sheriff show up and prove all was well. 

Still, he didn’t want to be seen. Flying under the radar from everything and everyone Beacon Hills had become somewhat of a priority for Derek in the time that he was gone. So instead of jumping out of the car and demanding to know how in the hell he was here right now, Derek composed himself and drove the car around the corner to find a place to sit and watch. Because of course that was what he was going to do.

+

In the end there was an order of French Toast cooling in front of Stiles and a bottle of syrup sitting within arm’s reach. The more he stared at it the more he tried to trick his mind into thinking that he would enjoy it. His hands shook as he cut the first piece and they didn’t stop even after he put it into his mouth and started to chew. There was no taste, nothing but texture. Nothing but ash in his mouth. But as Stiles swallowed his stomach began to make noises that drew strange looks from the other patrons. So he kept eating, didn’t look up until his plate was cleared. 

The second shift change meant that Stiles needed to get going. He had spent so long with his ass in the same position that when he stood mostly everything was numb from the waist down. As he paid his bill, the man working the register eyed him with a look that Stiles didn’t recognize. Part of him wanted to ask if they could use a short term busboy but the uneasiness in his chest clamped down on his question and refused to let go.

Street lights flickered on when Stiles heard the door close behind him. The day had passed relatively quickly with Stiles stuck in his own mind for most of it. He had come up with some semblance of a plan as to what needed to be done in the next twenty four hours. First off, finding a place to sleep was crucial. Stiles knew he was going to vomit soon and he wanted to do it in the privacy of a moderately priced motel room. Plus, it had been at least two weeks since he had a shower and he was getting a bit too ripe for his liking. 

Without a phone it was difficult to compare rates. Instead, Stiles looked for the most rundown place he could find and walked into the office trying to remain hopeful. “Hourly or nightly?” The man behind the plexiglass window asked without looking up. 

“Nightly?” Stiles responded. 

“$25 cash.” The man with the “Jared” name tag said. “No refunds.” 

Stiles shuddered to think what the room would look like but it was a good deal for a few hours sleep and a shower. Hopefully, he wouldn’t come away with bedbugs.

Every town had a Hooker Hotel he mused, trying to fish out money from his back pocket. Stiles just never thought he'd be crashing in one. 

“Okay.” 

Stiles was vaguely aware that there was someone else walking in. Pressure shifted, the door opening behind him. 

“You got ID?” Jared glanced up from his Guns and Ammo and looked at Stiles like he was sizing him up. 

Stiles shook his head, “No.”

He did. He lied so effortlessly now it was almost criminal. His license sat in his wallet just behind a picture of his mom and dad. Giving his name meant that there would somehow be a trail. That wasn’t a risk he wanted to take. 

“No ID no room. Need’s to be someone accountable in case you wreck it.” 

Stiles looked up from his wallet in disbelief. “Are you serious?” He gaped, looking around at the state of disrepair the room was in. Cracks in the floor, dirt in the corners, chipping paint. The only way to wreck this place anymore was if he got a bulldozer and knocked the entire motel down. “What is there to destroy?” 

“No ID no room.” Jared repeated. “It’s the law, kid.” 

It was not the law. Or it might have been. Up until now Stiles only stayed in one motel and when he said he didn’t have ID there was no problem. Maybe the woman who worked the front desk took pity on him and just let him stay. But Jared didn’t seem like the pitying type. 

“Well fuck you very much.” He spat roughly shoving his wallet back in his pocket. Yes, he was cutting off his nose to spite his face but whatever. This dude was an asshole and it was too late to recant now. There was a bus station somewhere nearby he could sleep there and not be bothered. Bus stations had bathrooms that he could clean in. 

He turned then, grabbing his bag off the floor. Plans fell through all the time, being adaptable was one of his admirable qualities. Stiles could do this, he could make it work until the Jeep was fix...if she could be fixed. It was going to be uncomfortable but fuck it, uncomfortable was his life now. 

“Good luck with the roach infestation.” Stiles sneered in the direction of the newcomer in the room, turning his attention to him for the first time. 

The last time that Stiles had been punched in the stomach he was in the Argent basement getting his ass kicked by an old man. The pain wasn’t fresh, he didn’t remember it really. So much was going on when it happened that sensory overload dulled the memory. Yet, when his eyes locked on the face of Derek Hale standing all lax three feet away from him, the feeling hit him like he had been shot. 

His presence was too much.

Stiles almost doubled over from the sensation of all the all leaving his lungs. Suddenly, he was back in Beacon Hills again standing over Derek, looking at Boyd’s lifeless body, feeling cold water seeping into his shoes. 

Fight or flight. 

Fight.

Fight. 

He wanted to fight.

“Stiles.” Nothing could be gained from Derek’s tone but it tore at Stiles chest nonetheless.. 

Flee.

With the sound of blood rushing through his ears Stiles pushed past Derek with enough force to dislodge the the man from blocking the door. 

It was so much darker than it was when Stiles went in. Momentarily he was blinded by the exposure of the harsh, fluorescent lighting, He walked, walked and didn’t stop walking until he was leaning against some red pickup truck in the parking lot. 

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him because Derek was sneaky as fuck. Derek was so close that Stiles could smell his shampoo. Too close, too familiar. Stiles rounded on Derek, fighting the sadness that rose in his throat and replacing it with venom.

“How the fuck are you here right now?” Stiles whispered harshly through his teeth. Eyes burning with something, anger maybe? Or relief of seeing something familiar. Derek felt the waves of sadness rolling off of Stiles and it made his fingers clench painfully, nails cutting into his palm. It was a real coincidence that they happened to be in the same place at the same time, totally happenstance, but there was no way that Stiles was going to buy that. He was like Derek in that way, totally dependent on fact and not feeling. “How did you even find me?” 

Derek shrugged, “I don’t know.” He answered honestly, “I was just passing through.” 

Watching Stiles take two angry strides gave Derek just enough time to tighten his jaw before a human fist collided with it. “Don’t lie to me!” Stiles barked as he pushed Derek hard in the chest. “Scott sent you, didn’t he? How did he know I was here? Half the time I don’t know where I am!” 

As he recoiled away from Stiles, Derek snatched the next blow out of the air and held Stiles’ arm still against the bruising force like it was nothing. 

There were people around who found whatever was transpiring between a pair of guys in a parking lot to be substantially more interesting than whatever they had been doing thirty seconds ago. Stiles was ostentatious in his angry abandon. He didn’t care about all they eyes on them, but Derek did. 

“I’m not lying to you. I was just passing through.” There was something imploring in the way that Derek’s eyes locked on Stiles’. He wanted to be believed because he was telling the truth. “I haven’t seen or spoken to Scott since I left.” 

Stiles deflated but Derek didn’t let go of his arm just yet. “Why are you here, Stiles?” 

His energy shifted dramatically, going from rigid to shrunken to anxious in the time it took Derek to register the change in the air. “I can’t go back.” He confessed as he tore his arm away. That confused Derek but he would press later. 

“I’m not trying to make you.” 

+

It took a little coaxing to get Stiles to agree to go back to Derek’s room. He was skeptical to say the least and Derek could see the wheels in his head turning at a thousand RPMs. Yet, once he was convinced, Stiles willingly followed Derek down the block to the motel in heavy silence. 

Derek was barely in the door before Stiles was brushing past him and hurrying to the bathroom and retching up his French toast into the toilet. In his rush Stiles hadn’t bothered closing the door behind him. He felt exposed as his stomach rolled again and again emptying his insides and leaving him hollow. Everything stank of bile and coffee and it made Stiles want to die right then and there. 

He brought the back of his hand to wipe away whatever mess clung to his chin before slumping back against the tub. Derek was in the doorway trying his best to disguise the look of concern but failing. “What happened to you?” He asked. 

Stiles chuckled darkly, “Fucking werewolves.” Was his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Drive by Halsey  
> Chapter Title from Bang Bang by Lynyrd Skynyrd
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr  
> triskelydia.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress. Please bear with me.   
> Come talk to me on Tumblr!! triskelydia.tumblr.com
> 
> title from Drive by Halsey   
> chapter title from Take It Easy by The Eagles


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